


pain that is not transformed (will always be transmitted)

by Ro29



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: (thanks Qui-Gon), Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Learning how to care for someone, Light Angst, Meditation, No Bashing, Non-Linear Narrative, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Padawan Anakin Skywalker, Plants, Post-Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Qui-Gon Jinn Has Issues, Qui-Gon Jinn is dead, and it's aftermath, while you yourself are grieving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28472718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ro29/pseuds/Ro29
Summary: Obi-Wan has never been good with plants.(or; the aftermath)
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 90





	pain that is not transformed (will always be transmitted)

**Author's Note:**

> title is a quote from richard rorh
> 
> I'm back on my bullshit and Obi-Wan isn't having a great time :(

Obi-Wan has never been good with plants.

He’d always been far more likely to stumble in the care of one, to kill it, than he is to properly nurture it.

Qui-Gon, though, had been wonderful with them in a way that Obi-Wan had never quite been able to mimic.

That, added with the way he took in whatever pathetic lifeform the Living Force called him to, and brought it back to the Temple to care for, well.

It meant that, though Obi-Wan was bad with plants, the rooms he and Master Qui-Gon shared — _had_ shared. Tenses, he thinks dully, are a tricky thing — had been constantly overflowing with them.

He steps into those old rooms now — braidless, and Masterless, and with a tiny child in his care now — and he thinks he’s going to choke.

The rooms haven’t changed.

He doesn’t know why he’d expected them to, but he had. The entire walk to the door, he’d been expecting to walk into the rooms and find them empty and waiting and ready for him to try and start new. To be free of anything from his past.

Instead, it is the same, as if the past few rotations had never happened, as if Qui-Gon will come waltzing in soon and laugh, smile at Obi-Wan again.

The grief settles under his skin, itches and aches, and he closes his eyes against the feeling of it.

It lingers, as does the anger, even as he tries to let it flow out of him.

He can’t, and it is a failing on his part.

He thinks he feeds the boy something. He doesn’t remember what, is in a state of half presence that is focused only on getting the boy into bed and getting time alone. All he knows is that it keeps the boy quiet, fills the boy up and sates him for the time being.

He thinks the boy might be saying something, but he doesn’t really hear it.

Can’t with the sort of halfway there state he is in.

He just nods, stays quiet as he leads the boy, after he finishes eating, to what was once Obi-Wan’s room, points him towards the bed. And Obi-Wan lingers just long enough to be sure the boy is asleep after the long day he’s had.

He leaves the room, closes the door behind him and is left with silence.

He looks around the room, at all of the things left behind, and at all of the plants that Qui-Gon will never get to care for again, and he feels something fragile in his chest crack.

He is a glass with a tiny split through his sides, spilling water out onto the table invisibly, useless and see through and unable to do his job.

He breathes, closes his eyes and feels the tentative touch of the child against his shields as the boy dreams. Obi-wan soothes him as best as he can with his jagged, rough edges, helps him compress back into himself and slip back off into a restful sleep. Opens his eyes afterwards and strengthens his shields like he hasn’t in years.

He gazes around the room, at all of the things that were, technically, Qui-Gon’s. The things that, though they were able to be used by anyone, had usually only ever drawn Qui-Gon’s interest.

His hands shake as he thinks about packing all of them up, giving them to others who might want them, who would take care of them and not simply stare at them remembering a dead man.

They are not Qui-Gon, he knows. They hold nothing of him really, except faint impressions that will fade one day, as time goes on.

Qui-Gon is not in these objects, there is no need to cling to them, and yet—

He breathes, lets his hands fall onto the leaves of one of the plants, feel the rush of _life_ and the sense of _Qui-Gon_ and the sighs of a mourning song and yanks his hand away.

He looks at them, and he knows he will not be able to keep them alive but they feel like Qui-Gon and—

He chokes on half-sob, swallows it down and wipes at his eyes.

He has to clean up.

* * *

When Obi-Wan was fifteen, there was one of the plants that Qui-Gon adored in particular.

He always spent some time caring for all of his plants, watering them and feeding them the nutrients they may need, repotting them when necessary.

But there was only one that he ever sat with, would meditate with, almost as if he was drawn to it.

He would sit with it for hours sometimes, just breathing and reaching out to it, tangling together with it in the Force and encouraging it to grow, helping it to flourish.

Obi-Wan — a teenager and trying his best to prove he was good enough, trying not to be angry, trying to be patient and kind and feeling like he was failing every minute Qui-Gon dismissed him — watched as he tended to it with so much care that it almost burned.

He always managed to let that feeling flow out of him, flow back out to the Force and leave him feeling a little better.

It got easier, or maybe Obi-Wan just got used to being second best.

* * *

He manages to get most everything of Qui-Gon’s out that night, is careful not to wake Anakin as he moves about the rooms like a spirit, picking up the things he knows he won’t use, placing them in a box to carry to the quartermaster.

He doesn’t touch the plants again.

He doesn’t get rid of them either.

Looks at them, after he has gotten the rest of the possessions out, and can’t bear to move them.

Can’t bear, in that moment, losing that as well.

He looks at them, dully, and doesn’t realize he’s crumpled to the ground, shaking, until he feels the throbbing of his ankles and the stinging of his hands.

He looks down at his hands, thinks he can imagine the blood on his hands now, though lightsaber wounds don’t bleed.

His cheek burns.

_Take care of the boy_ , Qui-Gon tells him in his memories and Obi-Wan wants to ask him _‘How?_ ’

He can’t, looks out into the room and realizes that he is in charge of a child now.

He closes his eyes, tries to banish the feeling of dread, of knowing he will fail even in this, this last thing his Master asked of him.

* * *

Qui-Gon had loved repotting the plants, had always had a smile, even if it was small, when his hands were covered in dirt and the plants were thriving.

He’d take them gently, hold the roots and soil in his hands and it would feel like watching something important, something secret.

He’d smile and speak quietly, whisper reassurances to the tiny little things and look up at Obi-Wan and tell him about them.

He was always gentle when he packed the dirt in, securing it all around the plants, keeping them safe, settling them in their new pot. And everytime, once the plant was settled, he’d hum to himself and say, “There we are, back home again.”

Qui-Gon had always counted every little pathetic lifeform in his care as part of home and sometimes it made Obi-Wan feel oh so fond and sometimes it made him annoyed, sometimes it was funny and sometimes it was exasperating.

But it was Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon adored when it was time to repot The Plant.

(It was a beauty, and though he knows Qui-Gon had told him about it before, in Obi-Wan’s head, it had always been The Plant. Capital letters absolutely necessary.)

He would watch — from his little corner with a datapad of books and a tea that he could never seem to finish before it got cold, as entranced in the words as he was — as Qui-Gon would cradle it in his palms, breathe softly and close his eyes. Slip into meditation and twine himself gently with the Force, sith that song of life that always rang through the air.

The Plant would always curl around his fingers gently, lovingly when it was time to repot.

Qui-Gon always laughed, when that happened.

It was one of the things Obi-Wan had loved the most, those moments, with warmth humming in the air and Qui-Gon laughing.

It had been worth everything else, those moments, every moment Obi-Wan had spent trying to make Qui-Gon happy, every time they didn’t quite agree, every time they fought.

It was worth it, with that warmth in the air, with that singing hum, and the laughter like a balm to his heart.

* * *

Anakin wakes, and he looks both excited and contemplative, as if he is holding words behind his teeth with great difficulty.

Obi-Wan sets his tea down, folds his hands into his sleeves and grips them together tight, fiddles with them and tries to think of how to settle an excitable child in a new environment.

He looks at the plants and then at the way Anakin is working away at his food, arm around the front of it as if he is protecting it, as if he expects it to be taken away at any second.

Obi-Wan feels the realization settle over him like ice.

Anakin expects it because it has happened before.

Anakin, he has forgotten, is from Tatooine, was a slave there.

He resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, sips at his tea instead.

He readjusts his plans and closes his eyes, thinks for a second.

When he opens them Anakin is staring up at him with wide eyes.

“Mister?” he asks and Obi-Wan tries to smile for him.

He thinks he falls just short of it, but it’s okay, “I think I’ll show you around a bit today Anakin, just while we wait for Healer Che.”

Anakin lights up, “Oh wizard!” he says, and despite it all Obi-Wan feels woefully inadequate.

He ignores the plants still spread throughout the rooms for now.

_Focus on one thing at a time_ , he tells himself, _help the child settle and then grieve._

He ignores the sad sighing of the plants around him, and the whispered name they sing, and walks with Anakin out the door.

* * *

When Obi-Wan is sixteen things are strained and worse than they’ve been in a long time.

He is sixteen and unsure and trying to defend every decision he makes to Qui-Gon, trying to be _good_ and show Qui-Gon that he has no reason to regret taking him as a padawan.

They are fighting more often, their edges grating against each other in a way that makes Obi-Wan think, _‘This is it, he’s done with me now, this is it he doesn’t love me, I’m not worth it.’_

Obi-Wan, at sixteen, looks at all the ways their personalities clash and thinks, ‘ _Just look at me. Just see me, please, just see me.’_

The Plant begins to die.

It is a slow death, something gradual but sure. And nothing Qui-Gon Jinn does seems to be enough to save it.

He tries anyway, because Obi-Wan’s Master has always been determined to fix everything.

Obi-Wan watches, doesn’t know what to do, only knows that he is suddenly the least important thing to Qui-Gon right now and makes himself scarce to let his Master focus on the important things.

He is good at letting himself fade to the background, at letting people care for others.

He is not good at plants, doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know why Qui-Gon is so focused on this dying thing.

He looks at the wilting plant and thinks, ‘ _I don’t know what to do, but I can’t let you die.’_

* * *

Anakin is quiet by his side as they walk.

He is rarely loud, though he is a child, though he sometimes rambles, he is _quiet_ and it is worrying but also relieving.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what to do with him as it is, is trying his best, he thinks of what would happen if Anakin was loud and he wants to curl up on the bed and stay there.

It’s not fair to Anakin, it’s not right and Anakin deserves better and Obi-Wan is _trying_ , but he can barely remember how to function and now there is a child relying on him.

Anakin deserves better than him, but Obi-Wan is all he has so he’s trying.

He’s trying.

* * *

When Obi-Wan is sixteen he is maybe edging on despair, he has spent so long trying to fit along Qui-Gon’s edges and found himself wanting, found that the edges just don’t fit together, rub and dig and cut instead, leave him raw and reeling with something ugly in his chest.

Quinlan, back at the temple for a short while, takes one look at him and purses his lips, humour leaching from his grin. He spends the rest of the time he stays at the temple carefully ignoring Qui-Gon except when necessary and bullying Obi-Wan into good spirits relentlessly.

It works a little, but Obi-Wan has always been too aware of his own faults, held too tightly to self-recrimination.

By the time Quinlan leaves again he isn’t quite hovering on despair anymore, edging towards something more closely resembling a type of resigned sorrow.

Bant, if he spent more time with her — instead of rushing after Qui-Gon on missions and trying to prove himself the little time they are _at_ the temple — might have something different to say.

But at sixteen Obi-Wan hasn’t properly had a chance to sit and speak to her in far too long, and he isn’t sure if he’d be welcome if he tried. Not because Bant is malicious, simply because she is busy with her own training, and Obi-Wan is trying not to be a burden anymore.

He doesn’t want to interrupt her, unleash his problems on her only to disappear. He is trying to be a better friend than that.

So instead he is building himself up with the pieces of anything he can reach, keeping himself together out of sheer will. He is trying to do his best even when he knows it will not be enough.

And this Obi-Wan — sixteen and with a sort of resigned desperation buried under his skin, pressed into his bones, with what seems like a well of sorrow in his chest — knows that if Qui-Gon can not keep his precious plant alive any longer, then the chances Obi-Wan will be able to are so very small.

But he grabs a cutting from that precious dying thing anyways, because he needs to try.

He doesn’t tell Qui-Gon Jinn.

(This, as with so many things that seem to go wrong between the two of them, is the starting point.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan have never been the best at talking to each other. For different reasons. Qui-Gon is too quick to settle into his own thoughts and accept them as right, doesn’t listen, just lets the words wash over him. And Obi-Wan—

Obi-Wan gets tired of pushing sometimes, gets tired of always being the one to try and reach out and getting dismissal in return.

He wishes he could do better but—

He is tired.)

* * *

The Room of A Thousand Fountains is both quiet and loud, full to the brim with the feeling of _life_ and with _peace_ , the singing of the air and the plants like a balm against the skin.

Obi-Wan steps through the doorway, Anakin a ghost by his side that seems to reach out and envelop everything in reach. The brilliant light that seems to embody the boy slipping forward and reaching out in wonder and awe, grabbing hold of that feeling of _life, calm, peace_ , and cradling it with a child’s grasp.

Obi-Wan looks down, sees that awe that is echoing so loudly in the Force, reflected in the wide eyes of the boy. It takes a second before Anakin seems to come back to himself, lost in the calming waves of the Force in this room.

Obi-Wan breathes, and there is a strange feeling in his chest, half a soft and joyful thing, and half a fragile shattered thing. It feels like there is a pressure in his chest as he breathes, looks at this little boy who is looking around at all of the green in awe and wonder.

It’s shocking, how quickly that awe, that wonder, slides into something like horror.

Anakin takes a step back, his breathing uneven and hand reaching out to grab at Obi-Wan’s, tiny fingers clawing at Obi-Wan’s skin.

Obi-Wan blinks and lets the boy grab him, tiny jagged nails tearing into skin until beads of blood well up and welts start to rise on his skin.

He doesn’t really process it though, is more focused with reaching out to the boy to try and calm him as he scrambles frantically in his mind, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

He brought the boy here to stay calm, to help him adjust a little and be shown something nice before he had to visit the Healing Halls. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what went wrong, what set Anakin off, but he doesn’t know what to _do_. And he’s lost and the burning light of Anakin is overwhelming and the waves of emotion crash on top of him, rattle loose that bittersweet feeling from his chest until he’s scared it will overwhelm him and he can’t _breathe._

Through the whirling storm that Obi-Wan can recognize, distantly, as Anakin latching on to him, a memory slips by. Gentle and full of a soft kind of understanding and care. Something shading towards bemusement but full of warmth.

_‘Gentle now,’ Qui-Gon whispers to a young Obi-Wan, eyes smiling as he teaches Obi-Wan how to handle a scared loth kitten, ‘they’ll lash out when they’re frightened or if something is wrong. Be patient, help soothe them, reassure them there is nothing_ _to be scared of, or all other attempts to move them will be for naught.’_

It’s not precisely the same, and Obi-Wan doesn’t think that Qui-Gon had ever meant for him to apply the logic to a powerful, untrained, _terrified_ child but—

Needs must, and as long as it _works_ and that storm no longer rages and batters away at either Anakin or anyone else close enough to feel the wounded edges of Anakin’s panic and the overwhelming amount of emotion drowning the boy, then Obi-Wan will take it.

Obi-Wan breathes, pushes the storm ramming at his shields and causing the pounding in his head away as best as he can and sinks down, pulls Anakin close.

“Anakin,” he starts, gently prying Anakin’s fingers away from his arms, ignoring the welts and gripping the boy’s hands to try and ground him, “Anakin, do you think you could try and breathe for me please?”

The boy shakes his head, breathing quick and panicked, “ _Can’t_ ,” he says, eyes wide, he shakes his head again, voice hitching as he stumbles through his words frantically, “ I can’t — not when — I _can't_.” He finally says, voice pitched high and wobbly, panic clear as the words spill out.

“Please,” the boy says, looking like he is begging, and it makes Obi-Wan ache as the panicked words continue, “it’s _right there_ , and there’s so much and it would be worth _both_ Mom and I to get even a little bit of it and you’re all _wasting it_ and you’ll run out and what do we do then, I _can’t, how don’t you see it_.”

Obi-Wan breathes, reaches out tentatively to Anakin, feels the boy latch on even tighter, trying to keep himself afloat among his own panic and not knowing how to.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, reaches out gently, soothing raw edges and breathing out _calm, peace, safety, no need to fear_ , as loud as he can to be heard over the raging storm. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand, and right now I need you to breathe okay? Do you think you could try, please? So you can tell me what’s wrong?”

Anakin trembles, hands shaking and eyes wide. He bites his lip, and after a second he nods.

Obi-Wan exhales, “Okay, thank you, follow me okay? Follow my breathing.” Anakin nods again and Obi-Wan tries not to let it show just how much he is stumbling through this and hoping for the best.

He brings their entwined hands up to his chest, breathes in deep and slow and over exaggerated to let Anakin feel it. Anakin tries to copy him, stutters through it. Shakes and closes his eyes, whispers, “Sorry” over and over again like a mantra.

Obi-Wan hums gently, after Anakin has found the pattern and latched onto it, and smooths a hand through the boy’s hair.

“Good Job, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, sending _reassurance_ down the bond, pacifying the storm as the boy’s breathing evens out. The terror tinged emotions slowly bleeding out into the Force, “you’re doing really good Anakin. Do we need to leave?”

Anakin bites his lip, shakes his head, “Pretty here.” he manages, closes his mouth like he is trapping something inside, swallows it down.

Obi-Wan tries not to show his frustration. It is not Anakin’s fault, but it _stings_ in a way Obi-Wan hadn’t expected.

He breathes, examines the emotion and lets it slip away.

He returns his focus to Anakin and the way the boy is withdrawing slowly, curling into himself and fidgeting.

“Sorry Mister Obi.” Anakin says.

Obi-Wan hums, wraps Anakin in a hug, squeezes the boy gently until the tension seems to drain out of him, leaves Anakin clinging tightly to him, face pressed into his robes.

“It’s alright, Anakin, nothing wrong with it.”

Anakin shakes his head, face still buried in Obi-Wan’s robes and Obi-Wan frowns, out of his depth and trying to understand.

He runs gentle fingers through Anakin’s hair, “Anakin,” he begins, softly, “is it alright if I ask what caused that?”

Anakin shrugs, doesn’t look up, mumbles something under his breath that Obi-Wan can’t catch, and that brightness around Anakin is dripping with _shame, scarred, worried_.

“Can you please repeat that Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, voice as gentle and patient as he can make it, “I couldn’t hear you.”

Anakin doesn’t look at him still, fiddles with Obi-Wan’s robes, “The water.” he mutters.

It takes a second for Obi-Wan to understand, more than a second actually, brow furrowing as he looks around the room at all of the fountains.

He doesn’t understand until he looks back to Anakin and opens his mouth to ask, remembering, suddenly, that Tatooine is a desert planet that needs water vaporators to get any supply of water at all.

In the time it takes Obi-Wan to realise though, little Ani has already withdrawn, flushed and stepping out of Obi-Wan’s arms, “It’s stupid, sorry Mister Obi-Wan, I’m just being dumb.”

“Not dumb,” Obi-Wan says, reaches out for the boy again. Anakin bites his lip, hesitates, and Obi-Wan stays like that, arm outstretched, tired but willing to try, willing to be patient for this.

Anakin moves forward hesitantly, until he slips his tiny arms around Obi-Wan’s waist, clings tightly. Obi-Wan settles his hands against Anakin’s back, rubs soothing circles there.

“Do you want to talk about it, Anakin?” he asks, and Anakin hesitates, shakes his head before freezing, nodding.

“I just,” Anakin starts, bites his lip and whispers, “there’s _so much water_ Mister Obi, and it’s just being _wasted_. All of it! What do we do when it’s all gone? I—” he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes watering.

Obi-Wan waits for the crying to begin, is ready to wrap the boy in a hug until he calms down again, because that seems like it works well on Anakin.

But Anakin doesn’t cry, just scowls, turns his face up and blinks, tiny hands clenched into fists.

Obi-Wan frowns, he is not, per say, _good_ with kids, but from all he knows, they do not usually do this. Grow upset and _frustrated_ at crying, yes, sometimes, but look up at the sky until the tears go away?

Why would—

_Oh_ , he thinks, _water_.

It is a haphazard guess, made only because of what Anakin has just told him but, it makes sense.

Crying on a desert planet with limited water rations, would, Obi-Wan supposes, be seen as a waste.

Anakin looks back at him, eyes wide and a little red, tiny shoulders shaking minutely.

Obi-Wan folds his hands together, rolls the words around to form the right phrases, stringing together something that will help Anakin and explain to the boy why he need not fear dying from a lack of water here. Need not worry about wasting water, or worry about tears spelling out a painful death.

“Anakin,” he starts, reaches a hand out to tangle his fingers with the boy’s smaller ones, “this isn’t Tatooine.”

Anakin nods his head slowly, confused and Obi-Wan breathes through the feeling in his chest.

“This isn’t Tatooine,” he repeats, meets Anakin’s eyes, holds his gaze, “there is no shortage of water here, you do not need to worry about whether there will be enough water or not.”

Anakin blinks up at him and says, voice trembling, “I don’t know how _not_ to.”

Obi-Wan breathes in, feels the words hit his heart and tries to think of what to say. Realizes as Anakin stands, shoulders drawn back and body weight shifted away from Obi-Wan, that he doesn’t know _how_ to help but that he’s going to _try_. Realizes that maybe that is what Anakin needs to know.

“We’ll work on it, okay?” He says, knows that any other answer would be only a hollowed out placancy, “We’ll work together to help you. You aren’t alone in this, everyone here will help support you Anakin.”

He meets Anakin’s eyes, tries to reach out again for that sand-storm mind and finds it has settled, feels Anakin reach out to him gently, hesitantly now that he is no longer trying desperately to ground himself.

Obi-Wan grabs hold of him, wraps him in warmth and reassurance, sends flickers of _safety_ and _guidance_ and _family_ to him that he hopes the boy will understand.

Anakin wraps his tiny arms around Obi-Wan and hides his face, shoulders more relaxed and that brilliant light of his groggy and tired.

Obi-Wan picks him up gently, sends a comm to Healer Che that they’ll have to move the appointment and then carries Anakin back to their rooms.

* * *

The Plant’s clipping is fragile and already halfway withered when Obi-Wan holds it in his hands. He is not, and has never been, particularly good with the Living Force. But even he can feel the way The Plant is slipping away, returning to the Force as it was meant to.

It feels a little wrong to be doing this, to be trying to make the Plant live longer than it should. To cling desperately to it and keep it from the Force just for Qui-Gon’s sake. But, Obi-Wan thinks of the look on Qui-Gon’s face, the distracted way he’s been lately and feels his resolve strengthen.

He knows that when he looks at The Plant, looks at that dying thing and thinks, _‘I can’t let you die,’_ thinks ‘ _I don’t know what to do, but I’ll try, for you, for Qui-Gon, just let this be the thing that works,’_ that he is being selfish, that he is focused on this for the wrong reasons. Can feel the discontent in the air, the discordant melody of the little cutting as he pours all of himself into keeping it alive.

It withers away even faster and Obi-Wan looks at it and can feel the weight of his own selfish failure.

The clipping dies, and Obi-Wan walks into the rooms to find The Plant on it’s last legs.

He hears the pained melody and thinks, _‘I’m sorry, forgive me.’_

He pours all of himself into the plant, and when Qui-Gon comes back to the rooms, The Plant is dead and Obi-Wan is sitting next to it, asleep.

They fight.

* * *

The thing about losing someone, is that, in your mourning, you find them everywhere.

He finds Qui-Gon in the fluttering of a bird, the whirl of a robe around a corner, the deep laughter in the Mess.

It is like an imprint upon his heart. A constant beat of _‘I see you, I see you, won’t you come back, I see you, please._ ’ and it rings in his bones and his chest until it is hard to breathe through it all.

He doesn’t know what it is that sets it off, it could be anything really, because he has only been able to see Qui-Gon in all the moments he left behind, all the bits of him that still rest in Obi-Wan’s heart, in his soul, next to the tattered pieces of what was once a bond.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’d heard a deep laugh echoing throughout the halls on the way back to his room, one that had made his heart speed up despite knowing it was impossible, made him look back for one hopeful moment before reality crashed down again.

Maybe it was the way that Anakin had left the chair to the table askew, in just the same manner Qui-Gon had always done, that Obi-Wan had hated.

Maybe it was because there had been good weather all day, and Obi-Wan had been thinking to himself all throughout that ‘ _Qui-Gon will surely be loving this,’_ before he’d catch himself and realise.

Maybe it was just because there were still stains on the carpet and on the kitchen counters from Qui-Gon’s misbegotten attempts to cook.

In the end, it doesn’t matter what it was that sets it all off.

All that matters is, one moment he is sitting in their rooms waiting for Anakin to come back from his class, and the next moment he is trying desperately to stop the tears from overflowing and spilling out onto the datapad in his hands.

Obi-Wan presses his palms against his eyes, wipes away the tears and breathes through the ache in his chest and the fact that the table will never end up marked up by another of Qui-Gon’s _awful_ attempts to cook. That Anakin will never have to sit at a lineage dinner and try to be encouraging while still teasing Qui-Gon about it. The breath catches in his throat and distantly he feels the datapad slip out of his hands, clatter onto the table.

It is a strange thing, to be mourning someone and also mourning what could have been. It’s feeling the regret and the ache and the sense of emptiness where that person once was, it’s knowing that the parts of you that come from them are now left without a reason, left existing without the person that helped shape them.

It’s looking at everything and constantly seeing the things that might have been, watching them come to life in your minds eye and just as quickly slip away.

Obi-Wan breathes, and it is like choking down glass.

He wipes his eyes, relaxes as best he can and tries to settle the buzzing under his skin, the numbness creeping up on him, closes his eyes and slips into himself clumsily, like he is an initiate again and trying it for the first time.

He breathes, looks within himself for all the clinging dark, the fog clouding him, the parts of him that are desperately clinging on to what has been lost, the part of him that brings about the might have been.

He looks at the complicated wire linking it all together with knotted lines, looks around at the cluttered mess that has latched onto everything as tightly as it can, like it — like _he_ — is trying to beg forgiveness from the memories.

He feels so tired.

He reaches out, does his best to untie the knots, to let the strings fall away gently, but they get caught, tug and tear and _hurt_ in a way that leaves him shaking a little.

He lets them slip out of his hands, still far too many of them clinging tight to each other and the ache in his heart is unignorable now.

He breathes, settles back and looks at the strings.

He needs to examine his emotions, accept them and release them, in order to untangle his mind, he knows this but—

He hasn’t even started grieving yet, not really. And he doesn’t know how to take his emotions and accept them, make those painful memories less full of sorrow.

There are ways to mourn, to release the emotions from grief and let it create something new in it’s place. It is something that helps to let go of the person who has become one with the Force, and also to help steady the mind and comfort the heart of those left behind.

Obi-Wan hasn’t done it yet. He just hasn’t found the time, not with Anakin and all of his new responsibilities and the way things have been going.

He just hasn’t had the time.

And even then, he looks at the ceramics and can’t feel anything drawing him there, any way to shape something to allow this aching wound a release, can’t find it within the other crafts or the fabric making and stitching.

The only thing he can feel call him are words, ink spilling out onto page and taking all the poison out of him and—

Words haven’t come to him right since Qui-Gon died, maybe even a little before. He hasn’t been able to take the words from his chest and sort them into stanzas, take the emotions twisting around inside of him and make them real, give them life.

He thinks it might say something about him, that he can’t find the ways to grieve, to let go and release Qui-Gon to the Force, that he is selfish even in this.

He breathes, reaches within himself again and sees the sorrow, accepts it as it is and knows the reasons for it; the loss of his Master, the complicated relationship they had before Qui-Gon’s death, the fact that Obi-Wan had been upset with him for so much of the day that he had died. He lets it flow through him and lets it pass, gives it back to the Force and turns to face the mass of knots once more.

He reaches out gently, doesn’t grab for the tangled mess of knots again, instead tries to find the starting point, the string that leads to this knotted mass.

It is harder than he thought it would be, takes more out of him than he thought possible.

He takes that line and he tries to wrap it all up, nice and neat and no longer a swirl of chaos and regret.

He gets maybe a few inches done before he is shaking, tears wet and warm on his face and throat closed up, chest tight.

The memories aren’t even sad, or bitter or tinged with regret or anger.

The memories are happy, they are the parts of everything that Obi-Wan looks at and can’t help smile at, overflowing with joy and with love.

That is, maybe, what makes it worse.

He breathes out, opens his eyes and wipes at his face.

Obi-Wan looks down at his hands and thinks of tangled knots and plants and happiness and bitterness and love and regret.

He thinks of Qui-Gon and all the ways he finds him still, even now. He thinks of _There is no death, only the Force._ He thinks of laughter and yelling and the core of a person and the pieces that are added along the way.

He closes his eyes, reaches out into the Force and thinks, ‘ _I love you, I am angry with you, I miss you.’_

The knot loosens and he sighs, _‘Mostly, I am angry with myself.’_

The knot falls away and Obi-Wan opens his eyes.

* * *

Qui-Gon is angry and Obi-Wan doesn’t know _why_ and things are worse than before and he wants to fold himself away until everyone forgets he exists or find some way to _fix_ this all but he can’t and—

It is not Obi-Wan’s fault the Plant died. It is probably his fault the cutting died, because he was incompetant and unable to care for it properly.

But Qui-Gon should _know_ that all things end, all things die.

Qui-Gon is mad and Obi-Wan tried to help and it doesn’t make sense, but in the end it doesn’t matter.

The rooms are silent.

Bant comes to find him and fusses over him in a way that makes him feel small, but she hugs him and it helps a little.

Soon she has to leave though, and he doesn’t ask her to stay no matter how much he wants to.

Before she goes she tells him that Qui-Gon is wrong, that the two of them need to sit down and talk because this isn’t just about the Plant, that this has been building for too long and that if they leave it to fester it will grow infected.

Obi-Wan thinks of dead things and distance and the way Qui-Gon never seems to hear what he says and thinks, ‘ _What do I do if it already has?’_

There is no answer.

* * *

Tonight there is another nightmare.

Anakin is silent all throughout it, doesn’t so much as whimper, but the emotions he doesn’t quite manage to shield choke Obi-Wan with their intensity.

He sits in his room and fights the urge to go wake Anakin up, stands and goes to the table instead, breathes through the emotions that are not his own and slowly sets to making Hoth Chocolate.

It takes Anakin 10 minutes to wake up, and in that time Obi-Wan finishes making the Hotch Chocolate and debates just going to shake the boy out of the nightmares and bring him back to consciousness, to safety.

Anakin stays in his room, still bleeding emotions out into the Force.

Obi-Wan sends a fleeting message through the new bond, whispers, _‘safety, come here, peace.’_

It takes a minute, but eventually Anakin stumbles out of his rooms and Obi-wan stands.

Anakin is frozen in the doorway, watching him with wide eyes, hands by his sides and shaking.

"Hoth Chocolate?" Obi-Wan offers and Anakin nods slowly, still looking like he might bolt at any second.

Obi-Wan smiles and hopes it looks comforting and not like a grimace, like he knows what he’s doing and not the fact that he has spent hours trying to figure out how to care for a child and still hasn’t figured it out yet.

Anakin inches forward, sits down and holds the mug of warm cocoa in his hands.

They sit in silence and Obi-Wan tries to find something to say to help. Can’t, when Anakin looks so small in front of him.

Anakin takes a sip of his cocoa, head down and he sniffles.

Obi-Wan freezes, doesn’t know whether Anakin is crying or not, wants to reach out to him, remembers shaking fists and teary eyes forcing the tears away and stops.

“I miss my mum.” Anakin whispers.

He looks up at Obi-Wan and he looks so _lost_ , looks like he is drowning and Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to tell him that he can’t _help._ That he has been drowning since before Qui-Gon Jinn died and that he can’t find a way to pull his head above the water.

He doesn’t know how to tell the boy that he can barely take care of _himself_. And how in the galaxy was he supposed to be able to take care of a ten year old who flinches at the word Master and misses his mother and doesn’t understand the entire new culture he’s been thrust into.

How does he teach a _child_ when he himself was, only a ten-day ago, still just a student trying to figure out how to help a plant to grow without killing it?

He breathes, takes a sip of his own cocoa and lets it all bleed into the Force as best as he can, tries to figure out what to say to this little boy missing his mother.

‘I’m sorry,’ doesn’t seem right, but Obi-Wan doesn’t know what else to say, besides telling him to look within himself and release it into the Force.

He takes another sip of the cocoa, and then sets it down, “It’s natural, to miss your mother. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

Anakin shrugs, doesn’t look at him.

Obi-Wan frowns, knows he is doing this wrong and can’t figure out why.

“May I ask why?” He says, instead of any of the other half finished responses in his head.

Anakin bites his lip, scrubs at his eyes and shrugs.

“She made me feel better after the bad dreams, and the bad days.”

Anakin doesn’t say anything else after that and Obi-Wan doesn’t know what else to do.

They sit in silence, finish the rest of their cocoa, and Anakin stands, small and shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tight around himself.

Obi-Wan sets the mubs in the sink and hesitates, bites his lip as he watches Anakin hold himself together.

“Anakin?” He asks, and the boy looks up at him, wary. Obi-Wan breathes, “Would it be alright if I hugged you?”

Anakin blinks, is still for a moment. Obi-Wan waits and after a minute, Anakin nods, barrels into Obi-Wan’s chest and wraps small arms around Obi-Wan’s waist.

Obi-Wan holds him gently, cups the back of his head and sends feelings of _safe, care, love, home_ , to Anakin.

Anakin breathes shakily and doesn't say anything.

Obi-Wan moves them to the couch, lets Anakin cuddle into his side and cards unpracticed fingers through Anakin’s hair.

They stay like that for the rest of the night.

* * *

It is two weeks of this strange distance before Qui-Gon sits down next to him in the morning, a cup of Obi-Wan’s favourite tea in his hand like an apology and eyes sad.

They meditate together that morning in a way they haven’t for — far too long

Obi-Wan takes it and it is all the forgiveness he has in him for that moment.

They don’t talk about it and Obi-Wan knows that if Bant knew, she would be cursing him out.

But it is good enough and they move on.

Obi-Wan thinks, privately, that maybe his Master wasn’t ready for a padawan after all, that he was a mistake.

The guilt haunts him.

He resolves to be better, and things are good for a time. Or as good as they’ve been in a long time.

And it's enough, it has to be.

* * *

It’s quiet in the rooms, and night has fallen not too long ago. Anakin is finishing his meal as Obi-Wan gets some tea ready for the both of them, it’s been a long day and Anakin has been quieter than usual today, none of even the usual chatter.

It worries him, and he hopes that he hasn’t messed something important up, hasn’t hurt this bright child anymore than life already has.

He takes a breath, heats the water and releases the sticky feelings into the force, can’t quite drain the self-disgust from the wound that is this mourning part of his mind.

He sighs, rubs at his face and tries not to think about it.

The water reaches it’s boil and Anakin is a silent shade as Obi-Wan sets the mugs and tea out, pours the water.

“Obi-Wan” Anakin asks, voice small, “do you miss Mister Qui-Gon?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t expect the question, freezes for half a second in pouring the water into the mugs before jerking back into action. Some of the tea water spills from the kettle onto the table. He blinks, looks down at it almost distantly before shaking himself and grabbing a towel, avoids Anakin’s eyes as he cleans it up.

There is, Obi-Wan has found, no real way to put into words the ache in his chest, not in a way that someone who is not Force-sensitive and felt the bond of a Master-Padawan pair can understand.

There are no words he can use, from the dozens upon dozens of languages he knows and cultures he’s studied, that describe the feeling in his chest, where a bond used to be and now there is nothing, that snap of something precious.

He can not explain how it felt as a little over a decade of partnership and care and love was torn apart with a single blow. Can’t describe the weight of his Master in his arms as that bond ripped itself apart, as he promised to take care of the boy he had just been jealous of.

It seems like something too big, too much. Feels as if something like that, so heavy, so big, should have it’s own term, it’s own definition to do it justice.

Obi-Wan finds, in the end, that it boils down to this.

He breathes, pours the tea water into the mugs with steady hands, and says softly, “Yes Anakin, I miss Mister Qui-Gon quite a bit.”

“Oh,” the boy says, is quiet for a while as he takes the tea Obi-Wan gives him.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks again and Obi-Wan looks up, watches the way Anakin looks into the tea with a distant gaze.

“Yes, Anakin?”

“Does it ever get better?”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, sighs and whispers his confession with numb lips, “I don’t know. I think it does, I _hope_ it does. But it’s a very new type of hurt, and I haven’t grown used to it yet.”

“Oh.” Anakin says again, looks up at Obi-Wan through his eyelashes and bites his lip, reaches a tiny hand across the table. Obi-Wan’s lip twitches, and he meets Anakin halfway, wraps that tiny battered hand within his own calloused one.

“Mama always said that it feels less bad, as you grow.” Anakin says, not looking at Obi-Wan. He pauses, furrows his brow, “She said that, even though you may never see them again, and it feels like they took some of, or even all of, your heart with them. That doesn’t mean that you’re out of heart. It doesn’t mean it will always feel like that.”

Obi-Wan swallows, “Your mother,” he says, and squeezes Anakin’s hand gently, “Is a very smart woman.”

Anakin nods, quiet, and squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand back.

They drink their tea.

The silence is loud.

* * *

Obi-Wan had asked Qui-Gon before, early on, why he loved plants so much.

Qui-Gon had smiled, eyes twinkling and grin wide, had reached out for Obi-Wan in the force and said, softly, ‘ _I’ll show you, Padawan mine.’_

He’d opened himself up, let Obi-Wan in and showed him how he saw all the plants, the living things shining brighton the Living Force in a way that Obi-Wan hadn’t seen before.

It was gorgeous, the way it all twined together like a symphony, in tune with each other and breathing brightness and peace into the very air. Louder and brighter than Obi-Wan had ever been able to see before.

It was amazing, and afterward Qui-Gon had smiled at him, warm and caring and like Obi-Wan was good enough, like he belonged there by Qui-Gon’s side.

It had felt like settling into his own skin, like waking up and realizing he was home after too long a journey far away.

Qui-Gon had told him, big hands holding Obi-Wan’s small ones, that he was so very happy to share that with him.

It was the first time, since they became Master and Padawan, that Obi-Wan had felt like maybe he was wrong, that maybe he _wasn’t_ a mistake.

Qui-Gon had smiled so bright when Obi-Wan had told him how pretty it was, how amazing, and they’d sat together, curled up with some tea, Obi-Wan reading and smiling at Qui-Gon’s stories and Qui-Gon taking care of his plants.

The room had been filled with love and happiness and Obi-Wan had felt lighter than he had in years.

(It is, to this day, one of Obi-Wan’s happiest memories of Qui-Gon.)

* * *

Obi-Wan wakes to someone crawling into bed with him, tucking themselves against his side.

He blinks open bleary eyes and frowns at the chrono, only to see that it’s far too early to be up. The little person — _Anakin_ , his sleep blurred mind supplies — curled into his side has their arms wrapped around him, squeezing tight as if Obi-Wan will disappear if he let’s go.

Obi-Wan rests a hand on Anakin’s back, looks down to see the boy has his face buried against Obi-Wan’s chest.

He’s shaking, and Obi-Wan frowns because he can’t feel it, not like the other times this has happened.

It’s good that Anakin’s shields are strong but—

Obi-Wan is worried, if it is bad enough that it leaves his Padawan trembling and climbing into his bed for hugs and comfort, then that means Obi-Wan should at least feel _something_.

He sets it aside to worry about later, right now he has a little boy clinging to him shaking and hugging him like he will lose him.

“Padawan?” He asks and Anakin shakes his head, clings impossibly tighter and, to Obi-Wan’s shock, begins to cry.

This is the first time, in all the time Anakin has been at the Temple, that he has cried, and something in Obi-Wan’s heart rattles like broken glass.

He wraps his arms around Anakin and presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, holds him as the boy cries with enough force that the sobs shake his shoulders, rattle his chest.

It is the first time Anakin has actually cried, instead of simply growing angry and looking up until the tears disappear.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know whether to count it as a victory or not. Holds the sobbing child he is in charge of in his arms and tries to find words to reassure him.

He can’t, he seems to be all out of those lately.

He breathes, brushes against Anakin’s shields in question and feels them shudder and fall slowly, until Obi-Wan can feel the fear and terror and anger that swirl around his Padawan.

He reaches out to Anakin calmly as he runs a hand through blond hair over and over. He tries to project peace and safety and love, to ground Anakin in the here and now.

It is something he’s had to do a lot, in the time since Anakin first got here.

It’s no fault of Anakin’s and Obi-Wan is doing his best, they are _both_ doing their best to figure things out, to get Anakin settled and feeling safe and understanding what is happening around him.

He tries to figure out what to do, but he doesn’t know what’s wrong. So he does what he can instead, and just tries to help him.

He thinks of plants and soft calming songs and hums softly under his breath.

Anakin’s sobs slow and Obi-Wan keeps his grip on the child, keeps carding his fingers through his hair and humming softly.

Eventually Anakin calms completely and when Obi-Wan whispers his name the boy doesn’t stir, fast asleep and tucked into his side.

He sighs, he’ll ask in the morning maybe, and try and see if anything is wrong.

For now, it is too early to completely justify being awake and he is tired and Anakin is curled into him and clinging on tightly.

He sleeps.

* * *

Anakin is at his lessons for the day, and Obi-Wan is out looking for a part Anakin had mentioned needing for something or another, when he sees it.

It’s sitting, close to dead already, off to the side of the street.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why it’s appearing now but—

It’s the same type of plant as Qui-Gon’s favourite, from all those years ago. It calls out, faintly, in the Force, a pathetic song that has Obi-Wan’s feet moving before he can think.

He looks at it, fingers brushing it’s dying leaves, and thinks, ‘ _Oh_ ’.

He hesitates for a second, because it is calling to him, calling for help, but Obi-Wan has never been good at taking care of planets.

He looks at it and he bites his lip, whispers an apology to it, knows he will not be good enough for it but gathers it up in his hands anyways, holds it like it is precious and thinks, ‘ _I’ll try_.’

It’s the best he can do.

* * *

He walks into the rooms and see’s Anakin fiddling with parts, datapads with the homework he’s supposed to be doing lying forgotten on the table.

He sighs and raises an eyebrow.

“I believe you were supposed to be doing your homework.”

Anakin freezes, looks up with wide eyes and blinks, “Uhhhh, I did?” He says, and Obi-Wan isn’t quite sure his Padawan could lie if he tried.

“Mhm, would you mind if I looked it over then?” Obi-Wan asks, and watches as Anakin winces, goes back to work to avoid Obi-Wan’s eyes.

Obi-Wan huffs, “I take it the homework isn’t done then?”

Anakin mutters under his breath, shoulders up and sighs, “No,” he bites his lip, “But it’s not like it’s important anyways! It’s all just stupid and I don’t wanna do it.”

Obi-Wan watches Anakin incredulously, because he thought Anakin loved learning, but Anakin doesn’t give so he hums, tries a different tactic.

“Well, I suppose that little boy’s who don’t do their schoolwork want their gifts to be given to someone else who needs them.”

Anakin freezes, looks up and narrows his eyes, “Gifts?” he asks, skeptical, nose scrunching up in a way that makes Obi-Wan want to laugh.

Obi-Wan shrugs, nonchalant, puts on a faux neutral expression, “Oh, it doesn’t matter, as long as the schoolwork is put off I simply can’t, in good conscience, show you, it would be _highly_ irresponsible of me.”

Anakin huffs, crosses his arms with a pout, “I _know_ what you’re doing Mister Obi,” he says, “and it’s not gonna work!”

Obi-Wan bites his lip to keep from smiling, raises an eyebrow, “Oh?”

Anakin nods, “Mhm!”

“And why is that, Padawan?”

Anakin huffs, flops down on the couch, “Cause I’m stronger than that!”

Obi-Wan hums, sits down on the floor and shakes his head, “That’s not quite the point here, Padawan.”

Anakin tilts his head, confused, an adorable frown on his face.

Obi-Wan smiles gently, “The point isn’t really about being the strongest, it’s about doing what you can to help yourself to grow. In this case I’m trying to cement that behaviour, helping yourself to learn and grow, with something that you wanted so that you’re more likely to think of it as a good thing.”

Anakin frowns, “That sounds kinda bad though, like sneaky.”

Obi-Wan shrugs, “I suppose it does, and it’s a bad thing if you think of it as just a way to get yourself things. If you think of it selfishly and only do things because you want something, then that isn’t good.”

He sits down next to Anakin and clasps his hands together in his lap. “Helping yourself to grow, Anakin, is important. When you grow and learn, and you use that knowledge to ensure that you are not ignorant or cruel, _that_ is when you can best help others.”

Anakin frowns, “So if I do my homework, I can help people?”

Obi-Wan winces, “Not exactly, what I meant.”

The boy wrinkles his nose, “But that’s what you _said._ ”

Obi-Wan sighs quietly and explains, “Not quite, doing your homework sets the foundation for all the rest of it and it’s through that you will have ways to help people.”

Anakin blinks, and says “Ok, okay.” in a way that tells Obi-Wan that he doesn’t completely understand. But he goes to do his homework and Obi-Wan is hopeful.

It’s okay that Anakin doesn’t understand yet, there is time to teach him.

(Anakin finishes his schoolwork and when Obi-Wan gives him the part he’s been looking for, his face lights up and he hugs Obi-Wan tight around the waist.

“You’re the _best_ , Mister Obi-Wan!” Rings in his ears long after Anakin has scurried off to finish one project or another.

It’s a nice feeling.)

* * *

He repots the plant the same way he had watched Qui-Gon do so many times, sits there, with dirt under his nails and roots cupped gently in his palms, and he breathes.

The air is humming around him, and his chest aches with something bittersweet. The brush of the little things life is like a sigh, fleeting and full of so much unsaid. Obi-Wan holds it gently, close to his chest, reaches out and tangles his gentle breaths into that little sigh, whispers it into a shaky little song.

He tucks it into the pot, packs the dirt around it, to protect it’s delicate roots, to help it thrive, sits back and listens to that shaky little melody and can almost hear the whisper of a name.

He leans back, closes his eyes, memory shaping the words on his tongue even as he stays quiet.

‘ _There we are, back home again.’_

He slips into meditation, breathes in the smell of dirt and the sound of the soft song.

He holds it close to his heart, supports it, breathes into it and twines himself with it, coaxes it to grow strong and steady, to sing and to live. The peace hums in the air, life overflowing and spilling out into the Force.

He cocoons the little thing with care and love and it responds with a faint little trill, like ringing bells.

It reaches back out to him, soft and sweet and it half feels like Qui-Gon’s gentle brushes used to, when Obi-Wan was younger and things were easier between them, when Qui-Gon was alive and breathing.

He lets it wash over him, sits there with that plant until it sighs, brushes against him with one last gentle curl and Obi-Wan feels the ache in his body that calls him back.

He opens his eyes, comes back to himself. He looks at the plant and the way it grows, healthy and strong and feels that soft ache drum in his chest, a mockery of a heartbeat.

He is happy and sad and he sighs, moves to stand and almost falls, has to grab onto the table near him.

He winces, stretches out his legs until they can hold his weight again.

“Mister Obi-Wan?” He hears Anakin call him and he can’t help the way his lips curl into a smile.

“Coming, Anakin.” He calls back, runs his fingers soothingly over one of the plant’s leaves.

__________

Anakin is asleep, finally, after nightmares had shaken them both awake again, and Obi-Wan should be back asleep, or at least in their rooms but—

It’s hard, still, to be in there and know that Qui-Gon is no longer there, will never be there again.

So he’s walking through the Temple, trying to calm his mind and sort out all of the emotions swirling through him.

He doesn’t know how long he wanders before someone interrupts him, but he stutters as someone falls into step with him.

“Knight Kenobi.” Master Yoda greets him and Obi-Wan blinks, mouth dry.

“Master Yoda.” he returns, feeling frozen, and like he is five standard again, caught wandering around after he was supposed to be asleep.

Master Yoda looks up at him, searching, “Wandering the halls at night, you are.”

“I found it difficult to sleep, Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan answers, fingers itching to fiddle with something, “my mind was too clouded for it, I thought it best to go on a walk to help clear it.”

Master Yoda hums, “Clouded, yes. Miss your Master, you do.”

Obi-Wan blinks, feels his heart stutter and that hollow ache in his chest increase.

“Yes Master Yoda.”

Master Yoda hums, taps his gimmer stick thoughtfully as he looks at Obi-Wan. And Obi-Wan feels like he is being flayed open and searched.

“Dear to you, he was.” Master Yoda says, and Obi-Wan nods.

“Of course he was,” Obi-Wan says, “He was my Master and I loved him.”

Master Yoda gives him a severe look.

“Hmm, Love him, you say? Loved him with destruction, or creation, did you?”

It's as easy as breathing to answer that, “Never to destruction.” he says, and thinks of blooming plants and crafted plates and words spilling out and overflowing onto the pages.

Master Yoda grunts, “hmmm, see that, I do. To show love from destruction, very bad this is. Rotten, it can grow. Better, it is, to show love from creation.”

Obi-Wan hesitates, “Only better Master Yoda?”

The old Master grunts, “Yes, know why, do you?”

Obi-Wan bites at his cheek, tries to think of how showing love with creation could be a bad thing. He catches himself reaching behind his ear for his braid and freezes, feels that shattered bond ache anew in his chest before he pushes it away, folds his hands into his sleeves.

“Because not all creation is good,” he says finally, and it seems like an awful thing to think but, well—

Showing someone your love by creating a weapon is still creation, showing someone love by creating pain between others is still creation.

Master Yoda nods, “Creation. Good for you, it is, yes. Let out emotion, it does, when fail, meditation may.”

“And sometimes that creation is made for destruction.” Obi-Wan says.

Yoda nods, taps thoughtfully at his gimmer stick, “Why, meant to help, that is. To guide. Other sayings, we have, to explain better. Less confusion, they cause.”

Obi-Wan nods, thinks of children channeling despair and grief into destruction, thinks of children being let loose with flimsi and paint and clay and coming out on the other end _with_ something instead of without.

“It’s good though.” Obi-Wan says, “It helps.”

Master Yoda raises a brow, “hmm, helps you now, does it?”

Obi-Wan bows his head, and Master Yoda huffs, doesn’t need to say anymore. Both the admonishment and the accusation of hypocrisy have made themselves clear in all the things not said.

Master Yoda walks ahead, beckons to Obi-Wan to follow after him, and, after a second’s hesitation, he does.

“Now, the main issue most Jedi take with this, discussed it, we now have.” Master Yoda rumbles, and Obi-Wan blinks, nods.

Master Yoda turns, looks up at Obi-Wan and for all that Obi-Wan has known that Master Yoda is over nine hundred years old, in this moment, those years seem to weigh his great-grandmaster down in a way Obi-Wan has rarely ever seen before.

“The issue then, hmm?” Master Yoda says, gestures to Obi-Wan with his gimmer stick, “is what?”

Obi-Wan frowns, chest tight and mouth leaden in the face of disappointment. “I apologise, Master Yoda,” he says, feels like he is forming words out of hollow sounds, chest aching and empty, “It is a failure on my part that I have not properly honoured my Master, and—”

The gimmer stick hits his ankle with a dull _‘thwap’_ , not enough to hurt, but enough to get a point across, to get Obi-Wan’s attention. Obi-Wan winces, cuts himself off.

“Taken the wrong thing from my words, you have.” Master Yoda says, bringing his gimmer stick back down with a severe expression.

Obi-Wan bites at his cheek, grips tightly at his arms, hidden by his sleeves, “I don’t understand, Master Yoda.” he admits.

The old Master sighs, makes his way to a nearby bench and sits, beckons for Obi-Wan to follow, motions to the seat beside him.

Obi-Wan sits, silent as he tries to calm the wild emotions clouding his mind, attempts to let them go and release them into the Force. Finds it difficult when he is barely sure what he is even feeling in the first place.

He feels off balance and he waits for Master Yoda to point it out, to admonish him for letting himself slip when he has so many duties he still has to complete.

Master Yoda sighs, weary, “Too hard on yourself, you are, Young Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan shifts, frowns, “Master Yoda?”

The old Master shakes his head, shoulders curling as the Force whispers of sorrow. “Natural, grief is.” he says, “difficult, emotions are. Difficult, it is, to achieve peace with yourself when grieving."

Obi-Wan ducks his head, thinks of plants and children and the complex twisting thing in his chest, pressed into the parts of himself that were born both _from_ Qui-Gon and _because_ of him. Thinks of arguments and feeling unworthy, thinks of warmth and small hands encased in large ones.

Master Yoda sighs, weary, pats Obi-Wan’s leg, “Conflicted, you are.” he states, and Obi-Wan nods.

Master Yoda grunts, nods, “A difficult person, your Master was. To honour him at your own expense, you need not, young one — only take what you feel and give it shape. Grieve him, you should, not martyr.”

Obi-Wan swallows, twists his sleeves in his hands and breathes, whispers, “Yes, Master Yoda.”

The old Master nods again, rests a hand gently on Obi-Wan’s leg, “Meditate, we shall. Focus, we both need.”

Obi-Wan nods, says, only the slightest bit strained, “Thank you Master Yoda, I’d like that”

(It is, he reflects afterwards, one of the few times he’s felt balanced since Naboo.)

* * *

Anakin is curled in the corner, tinkering with something Obi-Wan doesn’t actually know the function of, the sun shines and Obi-Wan sips at his tea, looks at all the plants still in the rooms, and looks down at his hands.

They’re so different from Qui-Gon’s, and for half a second, Obi-Wan thinks of small hands wrapped in large ones and deep laughter.

He sighs, closes his eyes and breathes, tries to center himself.

He hesitates for a second. The soft sigh drawing his attention, he opens his eyes, gaze drawn towards that little plant.

He can’t help the tiny smile at the eagerness. Slips down next to it and settles into a comfortable position.

He closes his eyes once more, slips into meditation and hums in harmony with the plant and its sighs of song.

When he opens his eyes again, the lighting of the room is darker and Anakin has switched projects.

He stretches with a sigh, “Done already Anakin?”

Anakin looks up nods, face screwed up in childish indignance, “You take _forever_.”

Obi-Wan’s lip twitches up, “Ah, my apologies,”

Anakin huffs and flops backwards onto the couch.

Obi-Wan stands, “Oh, woe indeed, I take a full,” he glances at the chrono and raises an eyebrow, “ _half-hour_ to meditate, how dare I.”

Anakin flushes, and murmurs, “Sorry.”

Obi-Wan hums, “Patience is a fine thing sometimes Anakin.”

The boy sighs, "Yes Mister Obi-Wan."

There's a beat of silence and anakin looks up at him with wide eyes, "does this mean we can have Hoth Chocolate?"

Obi-Wan snorts and gestures to the kitchen with a quiet, "Oh _fine_ , you menace."

* * *

Later, once Anakin is asleep, he sits down and breathes, heart aching and mind wandering and flimsi in front of him.

He looks down at the flimsi, thinks of plants and children and death, thinks of ‘ _Do you miss Mister Qui-Gon?’_ and the smell of fire. Thinks of ‘ _take care of the boy,’_ and _‘he’s ready_.’ Thinks of sitting next to a plant and encasing it’s delicate roots with soil and packing it in tight.

He looks down at his hands and thinks of _‘Love him, you say? Loved him with destruction, or creation, did you?’_ thinks of a hollow chest and words said in anger, thinks of _‘Grieve him, you should, not martyr.’_

He picks up the pen.

* * *

i picked up a plant last ten-day,

and it was The Plant,

you remember?

i picked it up,

held it in my hands,

and thought to myself.

oh how wretched of me,

to take this and kill it.

i held it,

that living thing,

roots and stems and leaves,

cradled in the palms of my hands,

and thought,

i'm sorry that you have only me to plant you,

to care for you.

it’s murder is it not?

to take something in,

something you know you will fail,

and still try to raise it anyways?

is that not the most gruesome murder?

it is a murder born from love though,

yes?

never mind that,

it doesn’t matter now.

i planted it anyway.

i took it and i placed it in the soil,

packed it in and surrounded it with everything it needed,

guided it with gentle hands.

i sat with it for so long,

encouraging it to grow and take root,

that when i stood up again,

i found that i couldn’t hold my own weight.

did that ever happen to you?

pouring so much of yourself into something,

only to stand,

and find you can no longer do it alone?

how terrifying,

to find yourself tied so thoroughly to something,

through all the parts of you,

that you have breathed into such a tiny thing.

i sat there,

looking at this blooming thing,

and i couldn’t find it in me,

to move it to the gardens that day,

or the next,

or the next.

i didn’t kill it this time,

i've done that right at least.

it’s grown,

settled in that corner nook.

you know the one,

with the best reading light?

i would always sit there,

reading and drinking my tea,

watching you as you sat with the plants,

wrapped the entire room with warmth.

it’s grown,

the plant,

and i can’t help but think—

how cruel,

how unfair.

for this to blossom now,

under my dreadful hands,

when it is for no one,

but my peace of mind.

and yet the other shriveled and died,

when it was yours,

when it was for you.

i can hold one of it’s blossoms in my hand now,

it unfurls and i can't tell,

if it sings your name because you are here,

or because i have tied it,

so intrinsically to my memory of you,

with barbed wire and silk rope,

that i can’t think of anything else when i hold it.

maybe it is calling out to you,

begging for you to come take care of it,

maybe the plant and I are similar in that way.

i forgave you though,

it’s hard to be angry with a ghost.

but anyways,

the plant.

i don't know if you would've been better for it,

but i think you would've tried to be.

maybe it would've ended up like the first one,

lovingly tended,

and growing strong and beautiful,

and then dying a slow death,

no matter how much you tend to it.

maybe it would’ve ended up like me.

i don’t know.

i miss you,

and i think i could have hated you for it.

but thank you,

for trying to show me how to help the plants grow,

for showing me how to nurture and care,

even though i didn’t understand until you were gone,

even though you stumbled and tripped,

and we never quite met each other where we should have.

thank you

i’m doing my best not to kill the plant again.

He finishes writing and he stares at it for a long, long time.

(What he doesn’t add is this, _‘I’m doing my best to honour you despite it all, I am doing my best to see how we were good and bad and wonderful and I am doing my best to be what is needed.’_

He thinks of Master Qui-Gon and his laugh and his easy way and thinks, half to himself and half to Qui-Gon, ‘ _I think the boy is better than I could hope to be, I’m not mad, I think you would’ve loved him, loved having him as a padawan’)_

He breathes, tucks the poem away in the box that holds his Master’s lightsaber and thinks, _‘I’ll try to teach him how to care for the plants, Master.'_

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to find me other places I have a [writing tumblr](https://rose-blooms-red.tumblr.com) and a [fandom tumblr](https://themessofthecentury.tumblr.com)
> 
> Please come yell at me about Star Wars and DC!


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